


Moviesex

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Love, M/M, Marathon Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-17
Updated: 2010-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur attempts to make good on his promise to fuck Alfred senseless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moviesex

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Hetalia Kink Meme.
> 
> May be read as a standalone. Or if, like [Twistedsheets10](http://twistedsheets10.livejournal.com), you've spent the better part of a year listening to me talk about stories that never get written, you might guess this is part of the sprawling clubbing AU that came out of [Hole in the Head](http://archiveofourown.org/works/143240) and that exists only in my mind. And if you made that guess, I probably wouldn't deny it.

They're having moviesex, slow and liquid, and it's agonizing. Moviesex is pretty but neither of them wants pretty—Arthur wants hard and fast, he wants to fuck and come; that's what he told Alfred at the club, and that's what Alfred wants, too. Arthur brings his hands from the pillow above his head to Alfred's hips and, before Alfred can say anything about touching or not touching or what kind of touching is allowed, Arthur bucks his hips up hard and fast, pulling Alfred down to meet his bucking hips; Alfred gasps, then rolls the sharp breath into a low moan.

"Is this what you want?" Alfred murmurs when he recovers, his voice husky for effect. It's not really a question, it's a tease; it's not really a question and Arthur must know it, because he doesn't offer an answer. Then, "Is this how you want it?"

This time it _is_ a question, and Arthur answers: "Hands and knees."

A shiver goes through Alfred. He feels Arthur's cock slide away as he lifts himself off and gets on all fours. That's what Arthur said, hands and knees, but Alfred lowers himself to his elbows, wrists crossed in front of him, spine curving as he arches, offering himself. He raises his head to glance back as Arthur kneels behind him, one hand on Alfred's hip, the other on his own cock. Alfred arches more, a little more than seems natural, legs spreading wider as he pushes himself back against Arthur, and Arthur slams into him hard and fast, starts fucking Alfred like that, hard and fast, hands on Alfred's hips, pulling Alfred back to meet each thrust, Alfred's cock slapping against his belly with the force of it. Hot and slick, Alfred tightens around Arthur, moaning and writhing, stretched and straining with want, his head lowered to his wrists as Arthur fucks him, sledgehammer piston in and out, hitting _that_ spot, sweet flood of rhythmic pleasure. Alfred's getting close, feels Arthur getting close, too. He lifts his head from his wrists again, rolls it to look over his shoulder: "Senseless, Arthur," he pants, "that's what you said—'Come to mine tonight,' you said, 'and I'll fuck you senseless, 'til you can't come any more, 'til you can't move or think or even breathe.' You promised, Arthur..."

Letting go of Alfred's hips, Arthur slides his arm around Alfred's waist to pull Alfred up, flush against him, Arthur still hard inside him; he wraps his hand around Alfred's cock and starts stroking Alfred off, smooth, rapid, firm. His other hand is flat against Alfred's belly, sliding up to his torso. Alfred leans back into him, head turned towards him and they're not kissing, Alfred's just rubbing his cheek against Arthur wherever he can, appreciative, contented hum vibrating from his throat, his body; the hums and vibrations intensify until Alfred's body is singing and he comes, shuddering all over and crying out; and Arthur slows but doesn't stop, carefully massaging Alfred's come into his cockhead, all along his length. Arthur hasn't come yet. He's hard inside Alfred and Alfred tries to wriggle, to push back more, clenching around Arthur, rolling his hips for Arthur; but Arthur holds him still, tells him to be still and just keeps stroking him until Alfred's hard again; until he comes again... and Alfred melts and Arthur starts again, until Alfred's melted, glazed... and then again... and...

...and Alfred's legs spread wider, his body slips down to lean entirely into Arthur. His body can't support him, can't contain the pleasure; the rapture is taking him beyond his body, transcendent. Alfred is surrendered, abandoned, helpless, enslaved to bliss.

As he continues to stroke Alfred towards another climax, Arthur offers him succor. Taking his hand from the nipple he's been rolling and twisting, he moves it to Alfred's cock, replacing the hand that was there; that hand, coated with Alfred's come, is on Alfred's face now, tracing his lips. Openmouthed, Alfred can't even flick his tongue out. He just prays for the fingers to slip inside; and then they do, and he's sucking, holding the fingers gently with his teeth, pressing them against the roof of his mouth with his tongue, licking the underside with strong, smooth strokes that match Arthur's hand on his cock; and he's _there_ again, giving Arthur more of his come... and Arthur switches hands again, saliva-slickened fingers feathering along Alfred's cock as Alfred suckles the newly-come-covered ones; fingers feathering then curling around, gliding up and down Alfred's cock; Alfred's cock beyond slick with lube and come and now his own saliva; Alfred himself beyond slick with sweat, slippery in Arthur's arms, no friction as he slumps against Arthur; slippery in Arthur's hands, curled fingers sliding up Alfred's cock with slick friction, gliding down...

And it goes on and on and there is only pleasure, wave after wave of pleasure washing through him, crashing over him, the undertow of ecstasy sucking him down and he's drowning, submerged, swept along by the current; and not drowning now but learning to breathe something that isn't air, pleasure thicker than air and just as sustaining. And Alfred's lost track of time, lost track of his own body; he's not his body anymore now; there is only the rapture; and there is only Arthur; Arthur surrounding him, wrapped around him, holding him, supporting him; Arthur's hands, his palms, his fingers; Arthur's fist obliterating him with pleasure. Arthur's sent him, taken him beyond; Alfred is simply beyond. Beyond reason or thought. Beyond his body, no longer a body but a shuddering, quivering mass of flesh and nerves and pleasure, coated and held together by sweat and come like a new skin. Beyond begging and crying and mewling; just breathing; might not be breathing, isn't sure if he's even still alive...

But then, he must be breathing, because this time when he comes his head lolls sideways against Arthur's shoulder, towards Arthur's neck, and he whispers Arthur's name. When Arthur starts again, Alfred begs for mercy, wants to say, "No, please, please, I can't—", but he can only whimper, a sound so soft it's almost not there.

The way Arthur's lips brush his temple, Alfred knows Arthur has understood the small soft sound. "Yes, one more. Come on, sweetheart," Arthur urges softly in his ear, coaxing Alfred towards yet another orgasm, "you can do it; one more for me," and Alfred doesn't know how his body can respond, but it does; he's hard again in Arthur's hand. If only, if only, Arthur's face—Alfred turns his head but can't look the way he wants, _needs_ to. Another small sound escapes him, like breath caught in an air bubble. Arthur doesn't say anything this time, but then the stroking ceases and Alfred whimpers involuntarily.

It isn't until he feels the loss, the emptiness as Arthur withdraws that Alfred regains some of his senses, and realizes Arthur is hard. He's been hard all along; for however long it's been, Arthur hasn't come.

Alfred is struck by the control. He has no control himself, he can't even control his own limbs without Arthur's help; Arthur is helping him up, off the bed, guiding him somewhere, just a few steps; and from outside himself Alfred sees them, sees Arthur and Alfred—and then he realizes he's looking in a mirror, the full-length mirror that hangs inside Arthur's wardrobe. The door is open now and Alfred is looking at their reflection. Arthur moves behind him, slides back into Alfred and Alfred sighs with relief as the emptiness is filled again; and then Arthur's fingers wrap around him once more, as firmly as Arthur's arm around him holding him up. Arthur isn't moving inside Alfred as he begins stroking him off again, and Alfred just leans against him, knees locked so they won't buckle. They're watching each other in the mirror—Alfred watching Arthur's face, Arthur watching Alfred's body; and the pleasure-ache swells up again.

In the mirror, Arthur's eyes meet Alfred's. "Touch yourself," Arthur says. Alfred reaches down to join his hand to Arthur's on his cock, but Arthur says, "No, in the mirror. Touch yourself." Alfred hesitates, then reaches out tentatively for his face in the mirror, and meets his own fingers instead. "Kiss," Arthur breathes, so Alfred leans forward, presses his mouth to himself; his lips feel the cool smooth surface, smoother than flesh or skin.

"So good," Arthur murmurs, "such a good whore." Alfred's throat knots, his cock thrums, his lashes flutter but he keeps his eyes open. Arthur starts moving inside Alfred again, hips rolling as he pulls back, almost out, then pushes back in, and Alfred moans, kisses himself openmouthed in the mirror, tonguing the glass. His spine curves concave as he presses against himself to kiss, pushes back to be fucked; he braces himself on the mirror as he kisses and rocks back to meet each thrust. Arthur's cock moves faster and harder in him, Arthur's hand matching the rhythm on Alfred's cock, pushing him closer to the edge, delirium, again. Arthur pounds into Alfred and Alfred feels the mirror rippling, lightly shuddering under his mouth and hands with each thrust, and he hopes they don't break it; he can only hope, because he can't stop, so close, _don't stop_ , so close to the edge—

Then Arthur pulls Alfred up against him. "Come now, Alfred," directive and plea; "I need you to come _now_."

Alfred lets go, breathes with the release, watches his come splash himself. And as his come slides down the surface of the mirror, Alfred doesn't have to be told; he leans forward without shame, rubs his cheek against himself, turns his head and licks, licks himself in the mirror, licks himself off the smooth cool surface; and Arthur comes violently inside him.

Straightening up, Alfred settles back and looks at himself in Arthur's arms, in the mirror; a sheen of sweat covers his skin and even his hair is damp, tendrils curling up at the bottom; come overlays the sheen on his belly, his chest, his fingers, his face, his lips. Sweat runs in small rivulets down his skin, along the contours of his body; Alfred looks at the sheen and feels Arthur's come dripping from his ass, sliding down his thigh.

He looks at himself the way Arthur looks at him—and Alfred is beautiful. He smiles in slow, soft wonderment.

Arthur's arms are still around him, holding him, but Arthur's not looking at him. Arthur's head is buried against the curved juncture of Alfred's neck and shoulder. Alfred's brow furrows in mild concern. He says Arthur's name but Arthur doesn't look up, just holds Alfred closer and Alfred feels Arthur breathing against him.

Then Arthur lets go, inhales and lets his breath out in a long, shaky sigh, and Alfred turns to him. Arthur looks at him now, his hand coming up and hovering by Alfred's face. His fingers fold closed and his hand drops slowly, a not-quite caress; only his gaze touches Alfred.

Alfred moves closer and Arthur breaks the gaze to let him. "I know what they think," Alfred murmurs in Arthur's ear. "I know they call me a slut. And I am, but only for you." He paints his breath onto Arthur's skin. "Only for you, Arthur."

"My lover and my whore." Arthur's arms tighten around Alfred, then release him as Arthur takes a half-step back, opening just enough space between them for them to find each other's eyes.

Light-headed but not dizzy, heart full but not heavy, Alfred smiles. "Yours."


End file.
